I’ve walked all day from Galway Bay, along the lower road,
With neither a horse nor two pennies to cross, determinedly I strode,
In boots of Irish leather as soft as the skin of the rich,
Over this haunted heather, to find, and bed a witch.
With no one to recommend me, nor tell me I’m better off dead,
I’ve come all this way in the chill of the day to sleep in a witch’s bed!
For I’ve heard men tell of a lass in the dell who can turn a man’s soul to stone,
And I’m headed straight there, to take her, I swear! And to hear that witch’s moan!
Now, I haven’t lost my soul (so far!) to any flash of skirt,
Tho’ I’ve had ‘em all, both big and small, on beds of satin, on beds of dirt,
And it seems to me well worth it, to forfeit a soul or two,
To a witch who is able to take that soul at any time from you!
And if, in the morning, I rise to find that my soul has indeed been mislaid,
I’ll be glad that it’s gone – that the deed has been done – even if that’s the price I’ve paid,
For what is the cost of abandon? How much for one magical fling?
Stand out of my way and I’ll happily pay to see what the night will bring!
And when, in another day or so, they notice I’m not at my table,
Just tell ‘em you’re sure I found Heaven and more, and did just as well as was able,
But don’t let ‘em mourn, for as sure as we’re born, we are often better off dead,
But if that’s true to say, then there’s no better way than to die in a witch’s bed!
